


penance

by nymja



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Everybody Dies, Gen, the Night King wins, the gendrya is minor and you'll probably wish it wasn't there at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-15 22:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21025412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: “Azor Ahai has fallen.” Her gaze flickers to him. “There will be no dawn. Not for any of us.”





	penance

**Author's Note:**

> i tweaked some of their placements in the battle for The Drama of It All  
also. read the tags before moving onward :'|

Her body is weak and it aches everywhere, but she thinks of all the ways she has been outside of it before. As a blind girl in the canals. A cupbearer to a lion. No one in a House of nothing.

Her thighs burn, shake. She holds onto the handle of the knife with everything she has, grinding down her fingers into it until the tips of them cry out in pain. Her chest tightens, cold air coming in so harshly she almost needs to cough as she moves. She doesn’t see Theon fall, but she sees his body.

She pushes herself to go faster, to hold all these pieces of unraveling muscle together _ just this once. _

That _ thing _stands before her brother. Arya Stark can only run.

The cry escapes her but she doesn’t hear the strangled noise. Arya jumps, swings down-

-and is caught.

The Night King’s eyes bore into hers, and his skin burns where it grasps onto her neck. Arya’s feet dangle above the ground, kicking out in small, useless movements. 

_ Bran’s behind him, _ she begs of herself. _ Please. Bran’s behind him _-

She flexes her fingers, tries to get air into her throat and chest.

The Night King only stares at her as if he already knows the answer.

_ Please. Pleasepleasepleaseplease _

Arya drops the dagger at the same time the Night King throws her to the ground. The air, already thin, leaves her lungs completely and her cough becomes a wracking thing that holds her entire body down. She doesn’t see the Night King kick the dagger away.

He stands over her, taking in her heaving breaths and desperate movements. His boot comes down on her back, pinning her into the snow. Arya cries out in pain. 

_ Please _

“All stories must end,” she hears Bran say from somewhere far away. “Even ours.”

Arya closes her eyes, bites down hard on her lower lip as tears escape.

“Arya,” Bran says.

Her eyes squeeze in the anticipation of pain.

“By being here, you have done what others could not. History will know you tried.”

She hears the soft scrape as the Night King withdraws his sword.

“It is over. You can rest now.”

_ please _

\--

His entire body is just numb, like all the fear in him has been tempered out by the unending wave of undead soldiers. If they live, which he thinks they won’t, he might not survive stopping.

There’s a cry.

Gendry and Tormund turn just in time to see Jon standing with his sword raised in the face of a fucking dragon. Gendry knows without thinking on it: they’re too far away to do anything about what’s to come. And Jon’s too close.

“No!” Tormund yells all the same, jumping down from the mountain of bodies they’ve built for themselves. 

Gendry can only follow. He hears them snarling and guttering in his ears, feels their rotted fingers trying to find a hold in his leathers. The feel of their cold, bloated or skeletal fingers has stopped frightening him. He’s lost the smell of their rancid breath like he loses the smell of his own sweat in the forge. So he climbs down some still writhing corpses without trouble, steeling himself for what’s about to happen to Jon Snow.

His boots touch the frozen ground just when he and Tormund both hear the roar. They look up just in time to see the cold, blue fire. See it eat.

“NO!” Tormund screams, and Gendry knows he should stop him. But no one can stop anything. “NO!” 

And Gendry watches, numb, as Tormund charges at the dragon too. 

The dragon spits fire again, claims another friend again, and Gendry can only take a half-step back.

The grip on his mace goes lax. He knows a losing fight when he sees one, has really only ever been in those types of fights.

Wasn’t there supposed to be another fucking dragon?

\--

Daenerys doesn’t sob, but her grip shakes on the sword in her hands. The wights approach closer, and at her back she almost feels how shallow Jorah’s breaths have become. Every time he swings his blade, she reaches out, trying in vain to steady him or comfort him or...she doesn’t know what she’s trying to do.

But the wights keep coming. And she’s not a warrior, and Jorah is-

Jorah is going to die soon. 

Daenerys closes her eyes, swings her sword again with a short cry.

_ Don’t die, _she wills--to herself, to Jorah. And maybe a small part of her believes it. Because all her life, the only thing Daenerys Targaryen has always had is her will. 

Jorah drops to a knee. “Khaleesi,” he breathes, exhausted. Even now, she sees him trying to stand, the knee shaking.

“Jorah-” 

“Kha…”

“Jorah!”

He falls.

Daenerys fights while she tries to hold back sobs. Wights fall, but her strength is waning. 

Jorah stands.

Her heart swells with relief until he turns around.

Until she sees his eyes.

\--

arya stark does not move after the night king drives a sword into her back. it did not expect her to, but the part of it that is still brandon stark screams so loudly. begs. the three-eyed raven does not see the point in doing so. begging has not and will never be a thing that can stop death or return life. many stories have tried.

the night king leaves his sword in her. then he approaches until he stands where he did before. the three-eyed raven looks at what has paved the road between them, to the bodies of theon greyjoy and arya stark. 

_ KILL HIM _screams the part of him that is still brandon stark.

the three-eyed raven folds its hands in its lap. 

_ DO SOMETHING _

the three-eyed raven’s gaze slowly flickers up until it meets the blue. 

_ RUN _

the night king reaches out his arm. his fingers curl around its throat. 

** _PLEASE_ **

begging has not and will never stop death.

the three-eyed raven closes its eyes and waits for the long story of its existence to draw to a close.

it grows cold.

\--

They hide as long as they’re able. When the sounds of dry scuffling of bones and clanging of swords unable to be lifted from the floor draw closer, Sansa closes her eyes and tries to think of small things.

Her mother, braiding her hair. Sansa later teaching Shae how to do it, trying to copy a style Margaery Tyrell wore the week before.  
Her father, sitting under the Godswood.  
Robb and Theon, being stupid boys during the feast. Rickon laughing with his head thrown back.  
Jon and Arya and Bran, standing in the snow-

Tyrion presses his lips to the back of her knuckles.

The sounds grow louder. Sansa looks up, lets out a long breath, and does not cry.

\--

When the Three-Eyed Raven releases its last breath, the weirwood trees rot until their leaves are brittle and brown.

The Night King looks to his generals, gives a short nod they understand. They withdraw their swords to find those who remain.

The Night King feels the air from the beat of dragon’s wings. He smiles when it descends.

Before he climbs onto its back, he stares at the bodies. Considers. Then raises his hand.

Theon Greyjoy’s arm twitches, then pulls the spear from his chest.

Arya Stark rises, the sword through her back still pinning her down into a crouch. She waits, patiently, until the Night King moves forward to reclaim it. She doesn’t flinch or make a sound when he removes it. Theon Greyjoy shambles toward them, gait uneven.

It seems there was enough of the human host in the Three-Eyed Raven, for he stirs as well. 

All their eyes burn blue.

Instantly, they understand what he wants, and they move in three different directions.

\--

Sam Tarly’s life ends with the swing of a mace and the snarl of a little girl wearing bear armor. Behind her stands the one who was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

\--

The one who was Bran Stark gestures wordlessly, showing the wights all possible entrances to the Stark Crypts. After enough time has passed, the one who was Sansa Stark leads them out.

\--

The one who was Theon Greyjoy is an excellent archer.

He nocks an arrow, watching the battlements. There are two figures, fighting back to back, their swords made of matching steel. In the flickering snow and fire, he sees one has a golden hand.

The one who was Theon Greyjoy aims, releases. 

The man falls. The woman at his side screams out a man’s name.

The one who was Theon Greyjoy nocks another arrow.

\--

The red bitch’s eyes open and she smiles flatly at the fire before her. “It’s over. Find your place to die.”

Sandor’s body still heaves with exhaustion. “What?”

“Azor Ahai has fallen.” Her gaze flickers to him. “There will be no dawn. Not for any of us.”

He works his jaw, anger overcoming him. “The fuck that’s supposed to mean?”

The door opens.

Sandor lifts his axe-  
-then lowers it. Relief fills him as he watches the little brat walk through the threshold. 

“Any reason you thought running off was a good idea?” He mutters.

Arya walks past him, head bent down to stare at the floor and her footsteps light and silent as she approaches the red woman. 

The woman doesn’t look away from her fire. “We have failed you.”

Arya withdraws a dagger. Sandor frowns.

“What’re you doing?”

The red woman bows her head. “And this is our penance.”

Before Sandor can move, Arya swings her arm down, and the red woman collapses to the floor as a spray of blood stains the wall behind her. Sandor’s eyes go wide, and he takes a half-step back as his grip tightens on the axe.

“The hell was she talking about?”

Arya straightens, no longer looking at the floor. When she turns, her eyes are bright blue.

Sandor’s heart drops. He doesn’t move.

Arya takes one step forward, then another. She has a fencer’s pose and a blank expression. He knows it’s no fucking good to talk to her. That she’s gone. That he needs to just cave her skull in and move on to the next one.

Sandor rolls his shoulders, lifts the axe up in preparation to swing. 

Arya steps under his arms, tilts her head back to look at him, eyes still wide and too young.

Sandor’s grip falters. The axe drops to his side in favor of his fingers cradling the back of her head. He swallows thickly.

“Go ahead and do it then, you little shit.”

There’s the flash of the dagger. He knows Arya well enough to understand she could make it painful. She doesn’t. 

\--

The wights have surrounded her, Jorah at their head. And Daenerys feels herself start to falter. 

A spear drives through Jorah’s back. 

Another sob escapes her as he topples over, and Grey Worm withdraws his weapon to kill more of the oncoming wights. “Khaleesi!” He orders, and quickly she understands.

Daenerys moves closer, until she is inside the range his spear can cover. She lifts her sword, and starts again.

They fight honorably. Bravely. 

\--

The Night King flies his dragon further into the skies. Until it finds his brother--flying limply and already weakened by wights and spears.

\--

Davos sees the wight archer and watches in horror as he shoots an arrow into Podrick’s back. The horror only grows when he sees that the archer has a golden kraken on his chest. Quickly, he nocks his own arrow-

-but the one who was Sandor Clegane drives an axe into his back before he can, a red woman with blue eyes beside him.

\--

There aren’t many left. The one who was Arya Stark stalks through the halls, removing any she comes across. Her eyes are well-trained to the shadows, her movements still silent despite the forever torn muscles and sinew. Every battle she starts is uneven.

Such is the case for her last one.

The one who was Arya Stark remembers him. Stupid. Stubborn. She closes her eyes. She doesn’t need them for what comes next.

“Arya?” The man says in disbelief. She feels large hands close around her biceps. Lips on her brow, then a forehead resting on hers. “We have to go, there’s too many, even for you-”

“They got Jon. I’m so sorry. The dragon-”

_ Jon. _Yes, the one who was Arya Stark remembers that name, too.

“You’re so cold- is that blood? Arya, are you hurt-?”

She brings a hand to grab his wrist, then opens her eyes. Ones that are almost the same color look into them with horror.

“No,” he whispers.

The one who was Arya Stark uses her other hand to slowly reach for her dagger.

“Please,” he says softly. “No.”

She makes sure it’s fast.

\--

The wights part in a wide circle outside the gates of Winterfell, only two figures--one clad in white, the other in grey--remaining still where they lay.

The Night King lands, his mount screaming and breathing blue fire into the air. After a moment, its twin lands beside him--wings that were once red and black extending out as the dragon stares down at the figure in white. She is still holding on to a final breath.

The Night King descends, walking with a steady gate until he is able to look down at her.

Daenerys Targaryen uses the last of her strength to spit on him.

It freezes and falls to the ground within a second. The Night King waits above her, watching impassively as she dies.

Her breathing stops. The Night King raises his hand. 

And the one who was Daenerys Targaryen reaches up to grab it. Lets it lead her to the riderless dragon who she mounts with ease. 

The Night King stares at the one who was Grey Worm. He nods, and grabs his spear from where it fell, split in two.

The Night King waits until he is joined by others. The ones who were Samwell Tarly, Lyanna Mormont, and Eddison Tollett. The one who was Theon Greyjoy. The ones who were Sansa and Bran Stark. The ones who were Missandei, Tyrion Lannister, and Varys. The ones who were Podrick Payne, Brienne of Tarth, and Jaime Lannister. The ones who were Davos Seaworth and Melisandre of Asshai and Sandor Clegane. The ones who were Arya Stark and Gendry Waters.

As one, they look south.

\--

A thousand and five hundred miles away, Cersei Lannister pours a glass of wine with a steady hand.


End file.
